The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (23 page)

Surprise flitted through her. It had never occurred to her to call Barnaby, although in retrospect, it almost made sense. After all, if there was a skeleton there, it had likely been put there while his great-uncle owned the shop.

She smiled with polite charm. “I didn’t even think to call you, but I’m glad you stopped by. The detectives took it yesterday and they’re going to try and identify it. If you haven’t heard the details,” she looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in question—since he’d obviously heard something, “it’s a woman and she’s been here about fifty or sixty years.”

“I wondered about that. She had to have been put here while Uncle Nevio was around—unless she turns out to be older than that.” Again, his attention covered her. “How are you doing? I’m sure that it was quite the shock for you to find a skeleton hidden away.”

She laughed and noticed the way his eyes glinted with appreciation. “I’m fine. I was a little freaked out at first, as you can imagine—but she’s been dead a long time.”

“Yes. The authorities are saying that she’s been dead for more than fifty years? I certainly hope that they don’t try and attach Uncle Nevio to this mess.”

Fiona realized then what was really bothering him. “Barnaby, I hardly think that a fifty-year-old skeleton in your deceased relative’s shop is going to ruin your political career when several extra-marital affairs didn’t do a thing to Bill Clinton.”

He chuckled, and his eyes darted away and then back again. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. One must be so very careful when one is in the public eye that sometimes it’s difficult to know what will affect one’s reputation and what won’t.” He smiled, but it was forced and he still seemed ill at ease.

“Nothing was found with the body; at least, nothing to identify who she was,” Fiona told him, taking pity. She supposed if she were a rising politician—God forbid—she’d be concerned about any hint of scandal related to her family. Heck, with her family, she couldn’t even contemplate running for office.

“Er…well, then, I expect they won’t be making any assumptions about how the skeleton got there. I’m just concerned that my uncle’s name will be dragged through the trash.”

“Do you actually think your great-uncle smashed her on the head and stuffed her in a secret room for fifty years?” Fiona joked, laughter bubbling up inside her…and she was shocked when Barnaby actually blanched at her suggestion.

She tilted her head to one side, looking at him with narrowed eyes as she became aware of a subtle coolness against her cheek. As she drew in her breath, she could have sworn she heard the faint whistle of a breeze, and a soft tinkle from above.

“No, of course I don’t think that.” If he was ever going to be a successful politician, Fiona thought wryly, he needed to work on hiding the true feelings in his expression. “I was just concerned about the whole thing. My great-uncle was a bit…odd.”

“Of course, but Mr. Valente wouldn’t do something like that,” she said. “It was so long ago, I’m sure he didn’t even own the store at the time.”

A loud crash startled them, and she whirled to look behind them. “Oh dear,” she said, looking at the antique china shepherdess that now lay in smithereens on the floor, several yards behind them. Rather close to that old walnut desk with The Lamp on it. Fiona swallowed.

“How on earth did that happen?” Barnaby asked in astonishment.

Fiona forced a nervous laugh. “It must have been the cat—Gretchen. I wonder where she went.” She made a show of stooping as if to look under the nearby tables, but she knew the cat hadn’t done that. The fringe on the white milk-glass lamp shifted and swayed slightly, as if a breeze—or something else—had passed by. But the door and windows were closed, and there weren’t any fans to stir up the fringe.

“I’d best get a broom and get that cleaned up,” Fiona said, hoping to take advantage of the diversion to bid her unwelcome guest goodbye. She was suddenly wondering just exactly when Nevio Valente had actually bought the shop. “Thanks for coming by, Barnaby. I hope your polls are looking favorable. I’m sure you understand, but I have to get back to work. Thanks again!” She moved toward the door and opened it, letting the cooling night breeze sift into the store.

Left with little choice, Forth nodded and began to walk out, but, like Colombo, paused for one last entreaty. “If you don’t mind keeping me in the loop on what’s going on with the body, I would appreciate it. He was my uncle, you know.”

“Yes, of course I will,” Fiona promised. He was a relative, after all. “Have a good night.”

As soon as she closed the door behind him, Fiona returned to the scarred, oaken desk in the middle of the shop and began to yank open the heavy drawers.

It hadn’t even occurred to her that Valente—that sweet old man—could have been responsible for the woman’s death, if it was indeed murder, until Barnaby had appeared so concerned about it. But now that the thought had struck her, she needed to know when Valente had bought the shop.

“If it was less than forty years ago, he’s innocent,” she murmured, bending almost double to look in the back of the bottom-most drawer.

A firm touch at the base of her exposed back sent Fiona snapping up and around, shrieking in surprise, and banging her elbow on the heavy side rail of the desk. She whipped to the side, flinging her hair away from where it’d stuck to her mouth, to see a silently-amused Gideon, arms tucked behind his back.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she sputtered, trying to swallow her heart back to where it belonged.

“My…I would have thought after last night…and this morning,” he grinned sensuously, “I’d have a warmer welcome than that.”

“Stop doing that!” She glowered at him, angry now because the erratic, merry tripping of her heart had nothing to do with being startled.

“What? Walking up behind you?”

“Stop showing that you have a sense of humor.
And
sneaking up behind me.” Fiona tried to hold it back, but the nervous giggle escaped and she succumbed to the smile while her heart did a little flip.

He moved, and suddenly a mass of blood-red roses appeared, quivering just under her nose, and sending the sweetest, muskiest scent to her senses.

Fiona couldn’t help the sigh that gushed from her throat, and before she realized it, she had her face buried in the soft, aromatic petals. “These are
gorgeous
.” Smoothing a fingertip over one curling flower lip, she looked up at him. “I’ve never seen such a deep, dark red like this. They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

Gideon sat on the edge of the desk and reached to pull her chin toward his mouth. Clutching the flowers—probably at least twenty of them, if not more—Fiona acquiesced and parted her lips as they touched his. After several moments of reacquainting themselves with each other’s kiss, they broke away and pulled back to look at each other.

Apprehension zipped through her as she recognized not only the intensity in his eyes, but also the depth of emotion that swelled in her chest when she gazed up at him. That, and the prickling thorns that jammed through her dress into her abdomen, was enough to cool her off and make it easy to pull away…all the way.

“How did you get in here, anyway?” she asked, frowning. She would have heard him if he’d come in through the front door.

He shrugged and half-grinned, and she couldn’t help but notice how his shoulders moved. And now that she knew exactly what those shoulders looked like, and how smooth and hard and broad they were, it had an even stronger effect on her than before. “I came around to the back and Dylan let me in. I told him there was no reason for him to stay since the shop was closed.”

“You did what?” Now Fiona was on her feet, and indignation swarmed through her. The arrogance of the man. “You sleep with me one night and you think that gives you the right to manage my employees?”

“Fiona, it’s almost nine o’clock—he said he gets off when the shop closes. Besides, I wanted to surprise you. And I didn’t want him walking in on this.” And before she could stop him, he pulled her to him by the shoulders, crushing the roses between them as he pasted his lips onto hers.

If the earlier kiss made her melt like hot wax and want to collapse into a pile of skin and bones, this kiss made her nerve endings sing and singe with heat.

When she pulled away this time, she was breathing heavily, and he looked as though he’d willingly toss seventy dollars worth of long-stemmed roses aside, just to get to her again. In fact, he reached for her, staring at her with some dark intensity in his eyes, but she slipped away.

Keeping the flowers between them like an aromatic, yet prickly, shield, Fiona forced her scattered thoughts into order. “Gideon, when did Valente take over this shop? When did he buy it?”

He blinked as though trying to refocus, looking at her for a moment without comprehension before frowning slightly. “I have no idea.” He reached for her again, but she thrust the roses at him, gratified when he jerked away with a pained exclamation.

“Oh, sorry, did I prick you? There’s a big vase in the back, by the sink—would you stick these in water for me? I’ve got to find something that shows when Valente took over here.”

Aware that Gideon hadn’t moved, she yanked open another drawer of the desk, and it groaned like wind through the trees.

“Why are you so interested in that?” he asked.

Barely glancing up at him, she rifled through an old, yellowed file and replied, “Barnaby thinks Valente might have had something to do with the body, and I’m trying to find out if he even owned the shop at that time.”

“Forth? Did you see him today?”

She nodded absently, perusing an official-looking document that turned out to be nothing more than an old insurance policy. “The man was a pack-rat,” she muttered, noticing the expiration date was February 19, 1963. “Barnaby was all worried that the skeleton in the closet here would be damaging to his political career. I told him not to be an idiot. But, I thought I’d better check and see if Valente did own the shop when the woman was murdered.”

“Fiona, we don’t even have a date yet for her death, let alone know whether it was foul play or not. Why don’t you let the cops worry about it—”

“What a great idea! Gideon, they’d tell
you
. You could ask for some official reason, couldn’t you—as my attorney, or something—so they’d have to tell you what they’ve found out. Will you?” She looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes—coming as close to batting her lashes as she’d ever done before—and she could almost hear her mother’s disgusted groan.

“Will I what?” The calm, cool, and collected Gideon actually seemed distracted by her fluttering eyelashes. Maybe Marilyn Monroe’d had the right idea.

“Call the police and find out what they know.” She allowed her lips to part just enough that he would notice, and she was gratified when she saw his throat convulse in a hard swallow.

He looked away, down at the cluster of roses he still held. “Fiona, it’s not that easy—I’m not sure what grounds we—you’d have to have for asking. But,” he held up a hand as she began to protest, “I’ll try it. Okay, I’ll try it—but can we just drop it for tonight?”

Beaming, she nodded, pushing her hair back behind her shoulder. “Thank you Gideon. I really appreciate it.”

He smiled at her then—a slow, taunting one that sent a rush of heat through her. All at once, the distraction of playing amateur detective was not enough to ward off that heavy emotion—the emotion that was easing into need….

It was Fiona’s turn to swallow and she turned away, crossing her arms in front of her. She would not melt into his embrace again. She needed some space…before he got too close and she got lost.

“Let’s grab something to eat,” Gideon suggested, his hands settling on her shoulders from behind.